Every spot was searched, where it was thought possible they might have
lost their way. But, when at length their little baskets were found,
overturned in a tangled thicket, one terrible conclusion burst upon
every mind, that they must have been captured by Indians.
It was decided, that ere any warlike measures were adopted, the father
should go peacefully to the Indian king, and demand his children. At the
earliest dawn of morning, he departed with his companions. They met a
friendly Indian, pursuing the chase, who had occasionally shared their
hospitality and consented to be their guide.
They travelled through rude paths, until the day drew near a close.
Then, approaching a circle of native dwellings, in the midst of which
was a tent, they saw a man of lofty form, with a cornet of feathers upon
his brow, and surrounded by warriors. The guide saluted him as his
monarch, and the bereaved father, bowing down, addressed him:
"King of the red men, thou seest a father in pursuit of his lost babes.
He has heard that your people will not harm the stranger in distress. So
he trusts himself fearlessly among you. The king of our own native land,
who should have protected us, became our foe. We fled from our dear
homes, from the graves of our fathers.
"The ocean-wave brought us to this New World. We are a peaceful race,
pure from the blood of all men. We seek to take the hand of our red
brethren. Of my own kindred, none inhabit this wilderness save two
little buds from a broken, buried stem.
"Last night, sorrow entered into my soul, because I found them not.
Knowest thou, O king, if thy people have taken my babes? Knowest thou
where they have concealed them? Cause them, I pray thee, to be restored
to my arms. So shall the Great Spirit bless thine own tender plants, and
lift up thy heart when it weigheth heavily in thy bosom."
The Indian monarch, bending on him a piercing glance, said, "Knowest
thou me? Look in my eyes! Look! Answer me! Are they those of a
stranger?" The Hugenot replied that he had no recollection of having
ever before seen his countenance.
"Thus it is with the white man. He is dim-eyed. He looketh on the
garments, more than on the soul. Where your ploughs wound the earth, oft
have I stood, watching your toil. There was no coronet on my brow. But I
was a king. And you knew it not.
"I looked upon your people. I saw neither pride nor violence. I went an
enemy, but returned a friend. I said to my warriors, do these men no
harm. They do not hate Indians. Then our white-haired Prophet of the
Great Spirit rebuked me. He bade me make no league with the pale faces,
lest angry words should be spoken of me among the shades of our buried
kings.
"Yet again I went where thy brethren have reared their dwellings. Yes, I
entered thy house. _And thou knowest not this brow!_ I could tell thine
at midnight, if but a single star trembled through the clouds. My ear
would know thy voice, though the storm were abroad with all its
thunders.
"I have said that I was a king. Yet I came to thee an hungered. And thou
gavest me bread. My head was wet with the tempest. Thou badest me to lie
down on thy hearth, and thy son for whom thou mournest, covered me.
"I was sad in spirit. And thy little daughter whom thou seekest with
tears, sat on my knee. She smiled when I told her how the beaver
buildeth his house in the forest. My heart was comforted, for I saw that
she did not hate Indians.
"Turn not on me such a terrible eye. I am no stealer of babes. I have
reproved the people who took the children. I have sheltered them for
thee. Not a hair of their heads is hurt. Thinkest thou that the red man
can forget kindness? They are sleeping in my tent. Had I but a single
blanket, it should have been their bed. Take them, and return unto thy
people."
He waved his hand to an attendant, and in a moment the two children were
in the arms of their father. The white men were hospitably sheltered for
that night, and the twilight of the next day, bore upward from the
rejoicing colony, a prayer for the heathen of the forest, and that pure
praise which mingles with the music around the throne.
The Doves.
A Sea-king on the Danish shore,
When the old time went by,
Launch'd his rude ship for reckless deeds,
Beneath a foreign sky.
And oft on Albion's richer coast,
Where Saxon Harold reign'd,
With a fierce foe's marauding hate,
Wild warfare he maintained.
From hamlet-nook, and humble vale,
Their wealth he reft away,
And shamed not with his blood-red steel,
To wake the deadly fray.
But once within an islet's bay,
While summer-twilight spread
A curtain o'er the glorious sun,
Who sank to ocean's bed,
He paus'd amid his savage trade,
And gaz'd on earth and sea,
While o'er his head a nest of doves,
Hung in a linden tree.
They coo'd and murmur'd o'er their young,
A loving, mournful strain.
And still the chirping brood essay'd,
The same soft tones again.
The sea-king on the rocky beach;
Bow'd down his head to hear,
Yet started on his iron brow,
To feel a trickling tear.
He mus'd upon his lonely home,
Beyond the foaming main;
For nature kindled in his breast,
At that fond dovelet's strain.
He listen'd till the lay declin'd,
As slumber o'er them stole:
"_Home, home, sweet home!_" methought they sang;
It enter'd to his soul.
He linger'd till the moon came forth,
With radiance pure and pale,
And then his hardy crew he rous'd,
"Up! up! and spread the sail."
"Now, whither goest thou, master bold?"
No word the sea-king spake,
But at the helm all night he stood,
Till ruddy morn did break.
"See, captain, yon unguarded isle!
Those cattle are our prey;"
Dark grew their brows, and fierce their speech:
No word he deign'd to say.
Right onward, o'er the swelling wave,
With steady prow he bore,
Nor stay'd until he anchor'd fast,
By Denmark's wave-wash'd shore.
"Farewell, farewell, brave men and true,
Well have you serv'd my need;
Divide the spoils as best ye may,
Rich boon for daring deed."
He shook them by the harden'd hand,
And on his journey sped,
Nor linger'd till through shades he saw,
His long-forsaken shed.
Forth came the babe, that when he left,
Lay on its mother's knee;
She rais'd a stranger's wondering cry:
A fair-hair'd girl was she!
His far-off voice that mother knew,
And shriek'd in speechless joy,
While, proudly, toward his arms she drew
His bashful, stripling boy.
They bade the fire of pine burn bright,
The simple board they spread;
And bless'd and welcom'd him, as one
Returning from the dead.
He cleans'd him of the pirate's sin,
He donn'd the peasant's stole,
And nightly from his labours came,
With music in his soul.
"Father! what mean those words you speak
Oft in your broken sleep?
_The doves! the doves!_ you murmuring cry,
And then in dreams you weep:
"Father, you've told us many a tale,
Of storm, and battle wild;
Tell us the story of the doves,"
The peasant-father smil'd:
"Go, daughter, lure a dove to build
Her nest in yonder tree,
And thou shalt hear the tender tone,
That lured me back to thee."
The War-Spirit.
War-spirit! War-spirit! how gorgeous thy path
Pale earth shrinks with fear from thy chariot of wrath,
The king at thy beckoning comes down from his throne,
To the conflict of fate the armed nations rush on,
With the trampling of steeds, and the trumpets' wild cry,
While the folds of their banners gleam bright o'er the sky.
Thy glories are sought, till the life-throb is o'er,
Thy laurels pursued, though they blossom in gore,
Mid the ruins of columns and temples sublime,
The arch of the hero doth grapple with time;
The muse o'er thy form throws her tissue divine,
And history her annal emblazons with thine.
War-spirit! War-spirit! thy secrets are known;
I have look'd on the field when the battle was done,
The mangled and slain in their misery lay,
And the vulture was shrieking and watching his prey,
And the heart's gush of sorrow, how hopeless and sore,
In those homes that the lov'd ones revisit no more.
I have trac'd out thy march, by its features of pain,
While famine and pestilence stalk'd in thy train,
And the trophies of sin did thy victory swell,
And thy breath on the soul, was the plague-spot of hell;
Death laudeth thy deeds, and in letters of flame,
The realm of perdition engraveth thy name.
War-spirit! War-spirit! go down to thy place,
With the demons that thrive on the woe of our race;
Call back thy strong legions of madness and pride,
Bid the rivers of blood thou hast open'd be dried,
Let thy league with the grave and Aceldama cease,
And yield the torn world to the Angel of Peace.
Early Recollections.
The years of my childhood passed away in contentment and peace. My lot
was in humble and simple industry; yet my heart was full of gladness,
though I scarcely knew why. I loved to sit under the shadow of the
rugged rocks, and to hear the murmured song of the falling brook.
I made to myself a companionship among the things of nature, and was
happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down
pensively; for I was alone, and had neither brother nor sister.
I was ever wishing for a brother who should be older than myself, into
whose hand I might put my own, and say, "Lead me forth to look at the
solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my
bed, because there was no sister to lay her head upon the same pillow.
At twilight, before the lamps were lighted, there came up out of my
bosom, what seemed to be a friend. I did not then understand that its
name was Thought. But I talked with it, and it comforted me. I waited
for its coming, and whatsoever it asked of me, I answered.
When it questioned me of my knowledge, I said, "I know where the first
fresh violets of spring grow, and where the lily of the vale hides in
its broad green sheath, and where the vine climbs to hang its purple
clusters, and where the forest nuts ripen, when autumn comes with its
sparkling frost.
"I have seen how the bee nourishes itself in winter with the essence of
flowers, which its own industry embalmed; and I have learned to draw
forth the kindness of domestic animals, and to tell the names of the
birds which build dwellings in my father's trees."
Then Thought enquired, "What knowest thou of those who reason, and to
whom God has given dominion over the beasts of the field, and over the
fowls of the air?" I confessed, that of my own race I knew nothing, save
of the parents who nurtured me, and the few children with whom I had
played on the summer turf.
I was ashamed, for I felt that I was ignorant. So I determined to turn
away from the wild herbs of the field, and the old trees where I had
helped the gray squirrel to gather acorns, and to look attentively upon
what passed among men.
I walked abroad when the morning dews were lingering upon the grass, and
the white lilies drooping their beautiful heads to shed tears of joy,
and the young rose blushing, as if it listened to its own praise. Nature
smiled upon those sweet children, that were so soon to fade.
But I turned toward those whose souls have the gift of reason, and are
not born to die. I said, "If there is joy in the plant that flourishes
for a day, and in the bird bearing to its nest but a broken cherry, and
in the lamb that has no friend but its mother, how much happier must
they be, who are surrounded with good things, as by a flowing river, and
who know that, though they seem to die, it is but to live for ever."
I looked upon a group of children. They were untaught and unfed, and
clamoured loudly with wayward tongues. I asked them why they walked not
in the pleasant paths of knowledge. And they mocked at me. I heard two
who were called friends, speak harsh words to each other, and was
affrighted at the blows they dealt.
I saw a man with a fiery and a bloated face. He was built strongly, like
the oak among trees; yet his steps were weak and unsteady as those of
the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and lay as one dead. I marvelled
that no hand was stretched out to raise him up.
I saw an open grave. A widow stood near it, with her little ones. They
looked downcast, and sad at heart. Yet, methought it was famine and
misery, more than sorrow for the dead, which had set on them such a
yellow and shrivelled seal.
I said, "What can have made the parents not pity their children when
they hungered, nor call them home when they were in wickedness? What
made the friends forget their early love, and the strong man fall down
senseless, and the young die before his time?" I heard a voice say,
"Intemperance. And there is mourning in the land, because of this."
So I returned to my home, sorrowing; and had God given me a brother or a
sister, I would have thrown my arms around their neck, and entreated,
"Touch not your lips to the poison cup, and let us drink the pure water
which God hath blessed, all the days of our lives."
Again I went forth. I met a beautiful boy weeping, and I asked him why
he wept. He answered, "Because my father went to the wars and is slain;
he will return no more." I saw a mournful woman. The sun shone upon her
dwelling. The honeysuckle climbed to its windows, and sent in its sweet
blossoms to do their loving message. But she was a widow. Her husband
had fallen in battle. There was joy for her no more.
I saw a hoary man, sitting by the wayside. Grief had made furrows upon
his forehead, and his garments were thin and tattered. Yet he asked not
for charity. And when I besought him to tell me why his heart was heavy,
he replied faintly, "I had a son, an only one. From his cradle, I
toiled, that he might have food and clothing, and be taught wisdom.
"He grew up to bless me. So all my labour and weariness were forgotten.
When he became a man, I knew no want; for he cherished me, as I had
cherished him. Yet he left me to be a soldier. He was slaughtered in the
field of battle. Therefore mine eye runneth down with water, because the
comforter that should relieve my soul returns no more."
I said, "Show me, I pray thee, a field of battle, that I may know what
war means." But he answered, "Thou art not able to bear the sight."
"Tell me, then," I entreated, "what thou hast seen, when the battle was
done."
"I came," he said, "at the close of day, when the cannon ceased their
thunder, and the victor and vanquished had withdrawn. The rising moon
looked down on the pale faces of the dead. Scattered over the broad
plain were many who still struggled with the pangs of death.
"They stretched out the shattered limb, yet there was no healing hand.
They strove to raise their heads, but sank deeper in the blood which
flowed from their own bosoms. They begged in God's name that we would
put them out of their misery, and their piercing shrieks entered into my
soul.
"Here and there horses, mad with pain, rolled and plunged, mangling with
their hoofs the dying, or defacing the dead. And I remember the mourning
for those who lay there; of the parents who had reared them, or of the
young children who used to sit at home upon their knee."
Then I said, "Tell me no more of battle or of war, for my heart is sad."
The silver-haired man raised his eyes upward, and I kneeled down by his
side.
And he prayed, "Lord, keep this child from anger, and hatred, and
ambition, which are the seeds of war. Grant to all that own the name of
Jesus, hearts of peace, that they may shun every deed of strife, and
dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven."
Hastening home, I besought my mother, "Shelter me, as I have been
sheltered, in solitude, and in love. Bid me turn the wheel of industry,
or bring water from the fountain, or tend the plants of the garden, or
feed a young bird and listen to its song, but let me go no more forth
among the vices and miseries of man."
Huguenot Fort,
AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.
I stood upon a breezy height, and marked
The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,
And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe
With a forgiving fragrance, even in death
Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees
Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams
That cheered their sedgy banks.
But at my feet
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days,
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,
And from the madness of a tyrant king,
Were strewed around.
Methinks, yon wreck stands forth
In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold
From thee, my native land! the wintry moan
Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown
Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free
To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,
And this was all their wealth. For this they blest
Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof
At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell
Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.
Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace
Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them
Didst brave the ocean surge.
Say, drank thy germ
The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled
An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould
Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink
From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train
Brother with brother fighting unto death,
At fair Rochelle?
Hast thou no tale for me?
Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,
With whispered words.
There was a gentle form,
A fair, young creature, who at twilight hour
Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise
My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft
As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh
Was tremulous with love. For she had left
One in her own fair land, with whom her heart
From childhood had been twined.
Oft by her side,
What time the youngling moon went up the sky,
Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;
He strove to win her to the faith he held,
Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,
Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,
As more than argument dissolveth doubt
With a young pupil, in the school of love.
Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom
Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm
Burst on the Huguenots.
Their churches fell,
Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;
And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,
In frowning espionage, troubling the sleep
Of infant innocence.
Stern war burst forth,
And civil conflict on the soil of France
Wrought fearful things.
The peasant's blood was ploughed
In with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs
That overhung the sea, from caves and dens,
The hunted worshippers were madly driven
Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,
The anthem on their tongues.
The coast was thronged
With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,
Leading her little sister, in the steps
Of their afflicted parents, hasting left
The meal uneaten, and the table spread
In their sweet cottage, to return no more.
The lover held her to his heart, and prayed
That from her erring people she would turn
To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed
That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad
In soldier's panoply.
But she, with tears
Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,
Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.
And so, as years sped on with patient brow
She bare the burdens of the wilderness,
His image, and an everlasting prayer,
Within her soul.
And when she sank away,
As fades the lily when its day is done,
There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance
Of earnest supplication, that the hearts
Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal
Should find no place.
She hath a quiet bed
Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name
On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.
When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the Edict of Nantz,
scattered the rich treasure of the hearts of more than half a million of
subjects to foreign climes, this Western World profited by his mad
prodigality. Among the wheat with which its newly broken surface was
sown, none was more purely sifted than that which France thus cast away.
Industry, integrity, moderated desires, piety without austerity, and the
sweetest domestic charities, were among the prominent characteristics of
the exiled people.
Among the various settlements made by the Huguenots, at different
periods upon our shores, that at Oxford, in Massachusetts, has the
priority in point of time. In 1686, thirty families with their
clergyman, landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found kind
reception and entertainment, until ready to proceed to their destined
abode. This was at Oxford, in Worcester county, where an area of 12,000
acres was secured by them, from the township of eight miles square which
had been laid out by Governor Dudley. The appearance of the country,
though uncleared, was pleasant to those who counted as their chief
wealth, "freedom to worship God." They gave the name of French River to
a stream, which, after diffusing fertility around their new home,
becomes a tributary of the Quinabaug, in Connecticut, and finally merged
in the Thames, passes on to Long Island Sound.
Being surrounded by the territory of the Nipmug Indians, their first
care was to build a fort, as a refuge from savage aggression. Gardens
were laid out in its vicinity, and stocked with the seeds of vegetables
and fruits, brought from their own native soil. Mills were also erected,
and ten or twelve years of persevering industry, secured many comforts
to the colonists, who were much respected in the neighbouring
settlements, and acquired the right of representation in the provincial
legislature.
But the tribe of Indians by whom they were encompassed, had, from the
beginning, met with a morose and intractable spirit, their proffered
kindness. A sudden, and wholly unexpected incursion, with the massacre
of one of the emigrants and his children, caused the breaking up of the
little peaceful settlement, and the return of its inmates to Boston.
Friendships formed there on their first arrival, and the hospitality
that has ever distinguished that beautiful city, turned the hearts of
the Huguenots towards it as a refuge, in this, their second exile.
Their reception, and the continuance of their names among the most
honoured of its inhabitants, proved that the spot was neither
ill-chosen, nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pastor, Pierre
Daille, died, in 1715. His epitaph, and that of his wife, are still
legible in the "Granary Burying Ground." He was succeeded by Mr. Andrew
Le Mercier, author of a History of Geneva. Their place of worship was in
School Street, and known by the name of the French Protestant Church.
About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a stronger body of
colonists, able to command more military aid; and thither, in process of
time, a few of the Huguenot families resorted, and made their abode in
those lovely and retired vales.
A visit to this fair scenery many years since, was rendered doubly
interesting, by the conversation of an ancient lady of Huguenot
extraction. Though she had numbered more than fourscore winters, her
memory was particularly retentive, while her clear, black eye, dark
complexion, and serenely expressive countenance, displayed some of the
striking characteristics of her ancestral clime, mingled with that
beauty of the soul which is confined to no nation, and which age cannot
destroy. This was the same Mrs. Butler, formerly Mary Sigourney, whose
reminiscences, the late Rev. Dr. Holmes, the learned and persevering
annalist, has quoted in his "Memoir of the French Protestants."